


Absolution and Autonomy

by AJRedfern



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Trauma, fighting it out, triggers(?) doing this to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 04:25:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6104845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJRedfern/pseuds/AJRedfern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hardest thing about peace after war is peace.</p><p>During peace, all your demons come out to play. </p><p>Bellamy isn’t avoiding Clarke - he's just trying to survive each night with his sanity intact. Okay, so maybe he's still got some residual anger. But he's dealing with that. And yeah, he's figuring out this trust thing too.</p><p>Fine, he <em>is</em> avoiding Clarke.</p><p>At least, that's what he was doing until he couldn't anymore.</p><p>*A 'finale goals' fic inspired by <em>that</em> 305 scene*</p><p> </p><p>  <em>WARNING: This isn't a happy fic. If it's not your thing, you might want to skip this and I apologise in advance. However, if you're like me and enjoys wallowing in angst - carry on :D.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolution and Autonomy

**Author's Note:**

> So 305 basically resulted in a re-imagining of my finale goals mostly because I loved that Bellarke scene but needed more. This idea just wouldn't leave me alone so I got it out *sigh*. The result was a darker, infinitely more angsty 'finale goals' fic. Because apparently, I can't leave anything I've written that is even remotely happy, in peace.
> 
> Here's to hoping someone out there will enjoy it anyway.
> 
> Love you guys :D
> 
> Also, if something here was handled incorrectly, I'm so sorry :(

‘Hey.’  
   
The world sharpens back into focus from an amber tinted blur as he looks up from his cup. On the other side of the bar, Raven’s watching him and from the look on her face, it’s the not the first time she had tried to get his attention.  
   
‘Sorry.’ he mutters, downs the last of his drink, ‘What was that?’  
   
‘I said,’ she repeats with an arched brow, brandishing a bottle, ‘one more and you’re cut off for tonight.’ shrewd, sharp eyes soften and her voice gentles, ‘You’ve been in here every day this week, Bellamy. Not here. ‘she waves an arm at the room beyond them, ‘ _Here_. At the bar. And you’re here again tonight.’  
   
It's been just past a month since the end of the wars, since Raven brought the City of Light crashing down around ALIE's stilettos, since things began returning to some semblance of normalcy, since the last of them came home with blood on their faces and hardened eyes. Since the last body had been laid in the ground. Since the period of mourning and moving on began. As far as Bellamy's concerned, moving on is going to take longer than a just a month.

He's had two drinks and nowhere near drunk.  
   
‘You worried about me, Reyes?’ he smirks at her.  
   
He means it as a joke but the words come out wrong and Raven’s eyes narrow.  
   
‘I’d be stupid not to.’ she snaps. ‘I watched Jasper spiral – do you think I want to do the same for you?’  
   
He lifts a placating hand, ‘I know, I know.’ he straightens with an inhaled breath, 'Sorry, I was being an ass.’  
   
Bellamy leans back, scrubs a hand across his face. The alcohol, once a pleasant burn in his chest, is beginning to sting. He knows he’s been frequenting the bar too much lately. More than he had when Clarke had left. He knows Raven has a point – that he needs to watch it before it becomes a crutch he can’t afford.  
   
But every night is a battle.  
   
At night, in the stillness of his small room, the thoughts that he pushes into the darkest parts of his head slither out. In the quiet, they are loud, overwhelming. He hears the echo of screams in the night, feels the weight of every life lost under his care, every life he took pressing him deeper into the mattress. He sees the light fade from eyes above a chest his bullets dug into. He feels the heat at his back, the stench of burning hair and flesh so strong in the confined space that he rears out of bed, stumbling into the corridor, gulping down air. At night, he finds himself, more often than not, sitting on the fucking corridor floor, shaking like a child and feeling more alone than he has ever had in his life.  
   
Unhindered, his thoughts mock him, recalling every smile he allowed himself during the day, every laugh that slipped out unheeded and they breathe in his ear, ‘Nadine will never smile again –she’s six feet under, isn’t she?’ or ‘Oh, poor Mageddo, he loved to laugh.’ Or 'This one choked to death on his own blood. You should have aimed for his head instead.' and 'If you hadn't walked into that village, she'd be sitting around a fire, laughing with her friends.'  
   
The worst is a disembodied child’s voice, lost and tiny, whispering from a shadowed corner of his room, asking him why his hands are covered in blood. It’s the one voice he cannot ignore and every time the words are whimpered out of the dark, he feels the warmth and stickiness congealing between his fingers, feels the thick liquid part and drip down his wrists as he clenches his fists and swallows the bile rising in his throat.  
   
Sleep is no better. 

A foolish mistake, his sister's tears, his mother's lips on his forehead.

Falling stars, burning bodies, a radio lost to the river. 

A child's hand tugging at his sleeve, a pale girl quiet and strong, a mountain full of rotting bodies. 

Crows circling over a field of corpses, grass slippery with blood, bodies riddled with bullets. 

Screams rising with the heat, a sleeping village, innocents burning, burning in the night.

The fucked up thing is, the alcohol doesn't even stamp out the voices or the nightmares, not really. What it does do is let him lie there in the dark, numbs his body and locks his limbs as they crawl over his prone body, as tears drip down the line of his face to wet the pillow under his head. It dulls out the need to fight them, to run, lets him just be still for fucking once as they resound in his head. And it's a relief - it might be weak and it might make him a coward, but God, he's so tired of fucking fighting all the damn time and sometimes it's just a relief to give in.  
   
Since landing, the ground had been screaming for his sanity. When he refused to give it up, it took his blood, his flesh, his sweat and his tears instead. Earth has torn away the last vestiges of his innocence. It has claws around the blackened scraps of what is left of his soul. But now - now he is terrified that the ground has more claim to his mind than he does. And if he loses the battle for his sanity, he might as well give up his life too because he’ll be of no use to anyone he cares about.  
   
It’s that thought that makes Bellamy push away the cup.  
   
His family. His friends. His people. They are his downfall and his salvation. He will do the unforgivable for them, spiral into the resulting darkness and yet, it is the thought of them that pulls him back from the brink. He doesn't know if that makes him strong or just a fucking masochist.  
   
'Bellamy.'  
   
He lifts his eyes from where his hands have turned into fists on the surface of the bar. Raven doesn’t bother hiding the worry on her face and he has to look away. 

He had seen that look on Gina's face too, had seen her stand exactly where Raven is standing with that exact look on her face. 

But Gina isn't going to be standing behind the bar anymore.

Gina - kind heart, beautiful eyes, smart mouthed Gina. Gone. Regret blooms poisonously in his stomach. Not regret for what could have been their life together but for not being the man she needed when she was alive. Gina was a good woman, strong and loyal. She deserved someone who could give himself fully to her. Bellamy was not that man. He could never be that man for her and, God help him, he had not wanted to be. But he had only figured it out when it was too late - for them and for her. He had cared about her, could have loved her and almost did, but he would have never been able to love her the way she deserved.

Raven had been right - Gina deserved better.

'You know I care, right?' Raven mutters.  
   
He unclenches his jaw, nods. 'I know.'  
   
'You need to talk to someone.' she says quietly, arms braced against the bar. 'Or don't yet.' She throws up a hand, 'Beat on that training dummy, break a couple of things, run circles around the camp - I don't care. Just stop walking around like everything's okay. Take it from me, if you're putting on a straight face because you think you deserve this pain, you're wrong.'

'Angling for the shrink job, Reyes?' he attempts on a grin.  
   
Raven just looks at him.  
   
Bellamy blows out a breath, lifts up his hands. 'I get it.' he allows. 'And I will. I just - I will, okay?'  
   
'Don’t come back until you do, Bellamy.' she murmurs, gaze steady on his, 'I won't pour you another drink.'  
   
Fair enough.  
   
He gives her a chin lift and she pulls back, makes to move away but her eyes shift up and behind him to the room beyond and she stills. Before Bellamy could turn around to see what had caught her attention, Raven is leaning forward again, eyes back on his.  
   
'If you can't fight your demons, I don't blame you.' she states quietly. 'But something tells me that if anyone could, it'll be her.'  
   
Bellamy knows then what had caught Raven's eye. He tells himself not to look but when it comes to Clarke, his instincts override his damned common sense. And sure enough, his head is turning to look over his shoulder and his eyes seek out her familiar figure.  
   
She's standing just inside the door, shoulders tight. Even from a distance, he could see the exhaustion in the lines of her body, the tightness around her mouth. She hasn't been sleeping again. The sight of her sends a bolt of heat to his belly - the same heat that sears under his skin the first time he had seen her in Polis, ceremonial paint under her eyes, and every time after that. The day he had walked into his sister and Lincoln's quarters and saw her standing there, that heat had burned so harshly, it had cut through the shock.

She's watching a circle of people playing a card game. They couldn't have been more than a few years younger than her and their laughter ring out above the buzz of the conversation in the room. Clarke's smiling but the sadness and the goddamned longing in her smile twists a knife in Bellamy's chest. 

He's shifting and has one foot on the floor before he realises what he's doing and freezes. 

Slowly, deliberately, he turns away from the blonde girl across the dim room.  
   
He doesn't look at Raven and instead focuses on the empty cup in front of him.  
   
God, he wants a fucking drink.  
    
Raven doesn't comment on the fact that his body is vibrating, that his hands have returned to fists. Instead, she disappears behind the bar and comes up with a bottle. Silently, she pours two fingers into his cup and pushes it towards him.  
   
When Bellamy doesn't move, only watches her with a clenched jaw, Raven rolls her eyes.  
   
'It's not alcoholic, idiot.' she mutters.  
   
He downs the shot and nearly gags at the sweetness scoring his throat. 'The fuck is this?'  
   
'Blueberry cordial. At least that's what it was supposed to be.' Raven replies wryly. 'Now I use it to water down drinks.'  
   
'It tastes like ass.' Bellamy informs her helpfully.  
   
'Then it has something in common with that rotgut you like so much.' she smoothly replies. 'Until you get your shit together, it's all you're going to get while I'm behind the bar.'  
   
His tongue's likely to have teeth marks from all the times he has to bite it. They can add to his collection of scars.  
   
'Bellamy -'  
   
'Don't.'  
   
The word comes out as a growl and Bellamy curses himself out at the look on Raven's face. He wonders if she's seeing the monster under the man and he hates himself for the hurt that passes over her face.  
   
It's no excuse but after a night like he's having, seeing Clarke had scraped him raw. 

That was the thing about Clarke - even when she doesn't mean to, she tears through every protective wall he painstakingly builds around himself. She reads him like a fucking book. She looks at him like she's looking into his soul and every time, she leaves him feeling raw and exposed. But he had gotten used to that vulnerability because of her, because he learned that vulnerability doesn't have to be a weakness when someone like Clarke is protecting it.  
   
And then she left.  
   
He found her. 

And she was taken away from him.

But the second time he found her, it was he who left.

Their paths forked and the hell that had become Bellamy's life burned even hotter. 

Sometimes, during those days, he would think of Clarke. Sometimes the rage and resentment would choke him. Sometimes the pain was razor sharp , sometimes it had dulled to an ache in his ribcage. Sometimes, though, sometimes he didn't miss her sharp mind, her calmness, her guidance, her grounding presence - sometimes, he just missed _her_. Her wry little smile, her husky laugh, her hair in his face, her hand on his wrist. And sometimes, he resented just how much he missed her.  
   
Everyone talks of the tragedy of war. Bellamy has made it through two and he still doesn't know if the aftermath is any easier than the battles fought. Save for that one disastrous attempt which ended with him handcuffing her to a chair, he and Clarke never tackled their issues head on again. Once was enough to shake them bone deep. Sure, there had been allusions and an undercurrent to their conversations after but for the most part, he and Clarke had pushed through whatever problems between them. He had fucked up too much to throw shit at her and Clarke had seemed to just want to forget their alteration ever happened. It was a band-aid solution but the avoidance worked - they had other things to work through.

But without the distraction of war and conflict, those problems surfaced again to the fore of his mind.

Bellamy's relieved Clarke was back in Arkadia, that she was alive and safe, that she was working things out with the people who cared about her. That he can catch a glimpse of blond hair rounding a corner and know, in his gut, that it's Clarke. That unlike the three months that she had been gone, it wasn't his mind conjuring up her image, superimposing the memory of her stride onto another's, making him quicken his step to grab an arm only to have the wrong face stare back at him. 

Clarke wasn't the only blonde woman at the camp and he had made that mistake too many times to count while she was gone.

But now that she's back, now that the wars are over, a part of him keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop - for her to leave again. It’s unfair, he knows, but it's in the back of his mind. Constantly, nagging, scraping against his skull until he wants to scream. He's been avoiding her and that's unfair too but he can't go back to the way things were before she left. Not yet. Not until he works that particular demon out. 

He trusts Clarke with his life.

It's just the other parts to him he can't put in her hands. 

'She has her own demons to fight.' he finally says.

 'Well, Clarke's fighting a losing battle.' Raven snaps. 'And so are you. So maybe you two can mix it up a little and exchange demons for a while.'

He blows out a breath through his nose, grits his teeth, and throws Raven a warning look.

'Don’t look at me like that.' she narrows her eyes. 'You think you're fooling me? And I share a room with that girl because I can't get past the idea of her being alone at night. You're both too damn stubborn for your own good - and that's coming from _me_.' Raven pushes away, begins scrubbing viciously at a non-existent spot with the bar cloth, muttering, 'You're avoiding her, she's scared to talk to you -'

Wait, Clarke's what?

' - just look at her!' Raven throws down the cloth, gesturing behind him, 'She's looking at that ugly thing like it holds the meaning to life instead of getting her ass over here!'

Bellamy can't help it; he turns.

Clarke's studying a painting mounted on the wall, back to them, arms drawn down by her sides. Bellamy's about to turn back to Raven when he stills, stops to watch Clarke more closely.

Something's wrong.

Clarke's stance is too tight.

Bellamy scans the room for anything that might have set her off, but there's nothing out of place. Ignoring Raven's call, his eyes goes back to Clarke, takes her in. 

Cold crawls up his spine.

The painting.

Starry Night.

It hung in President Wallace's cell in Mount Weather.

Fuck.

Bellamy's on his feet before he even knows he's moving and the only thing that stops him from crossing the room is a hand around his arm, yanking his attention back. He turns his head to meet Raven's worried eyes.

'What's wro -'

'Get that fucking painting down.' he snarls.

Raven releases his arm, eyes widening at the venom in his voice, 'Bellamy -'

'It's triggering her.' he bites out.

He doesn’t wait for the horror that washes over Raven's face to fade into stone before he's striding across the room.

It's Raven - she'll get the damn painting down even if she has to blow a hole through the wall to do it.

Right now, his priority is Clarke.

Several people glance at him and whatever they read in his face makes them move out of his way silently. He reaches Clarke and from several feet away, he can see that she's trembling.

Shit.

'Clarke.'

Her name feels foreign on his tongue like he had gone too long without saying it.

She turns at his voice, face pale, eyes wild, chest moving and mouth open like she's trying to get in air but it's not enough.

_Shit._

He snaps forward, takes her arm as she stumbles towards him and straight into him. His hand around her arm becomes an arm around her back as her weight hits his chest and it clenches at the cold on her skin. 

'Clarke.'

But she just stares at him silently, eyes going blank, she's lost in her head and it's dark memories. 

'Goddamn it.' Bellamy sets her away, fingers wrapped around her upper arms as he leans down to meet her eyes. He shakes her once. 'Clarke!'

She jerks, blinks and now it's him she's really seeing. Her pale lips open and she sucks in a gasping breath. 'Bellamy.'

Her face pinches and she pulls in another breath. Then another. But she seems like she still can't get enough air and her eyes become wide, panicked as they dart around the room.

No, not like this. Please, not like this.

Bellamy swears, wraps a hand around her neck, pulls her into him as her hands clench in his t-shirt, yanks him closer. He turns his back to the room, shielding her from curious eyes, as he moves them out into the dark hallway and enough down it that they wouldn't be heard easily.

He pulls away to look at her, the sound of his t-shirt ripping under her fingers barely registering. 'Clarke, you're having a panic attack.'

Her wide eyes rise to his, her gasps still wheezing in the quiet air. One hand detaches itself from his t-shirt and comes up to rest on her chest as she struggles for air. Her brows draw down as if in pain and she's tilts her chin up, trying to breathe, her body shaking under his hands.

Christ, she sounds like she's having a heart attack.

'Hey.' he whispers, low and urgent, 'Look at me.'

She tilts her chin down, eyes pleading.

'You're going to be okay, I promise.' Bellamy tells her firmly. 

At this point, he'll promise her the fucking stars if it'll just help her breathe. 

He reaches down, wraps his fingers around the hand she had clenched in his t-shirt and tugs it loose. 

'Here.' he places her hand against his neck - _god, she had small hands_ -, wraps her cold fingers around his throat and presses the underside of her forearm against his chest. ‘Feel me breathe.’ he instructs softly, Clarke’s eyes flickering down to his neck where she can feel his pulse against her fingers, her arm under which she can feel his chest rise and fall. ‘That’s it, Clarke.’ he murmurs when she tries to match her breathing to his. ‘Breathe with me, baby, come on.’  
   
The endearment slips out unheeded, making him pause and he wonders if Clarke can feel the jump in his pulse but she’s focused solely on her fingers, his throat, her forearm, his chest. He can almost see the panic shut down in her eyes, determination replacing it as her mouth closes with the sound of teeth snapping together and a muscle in her jaw ripples.  
   
She’s taking in deep breaths through her nose, her chest expanding, matching his rhythm and her breaths are no longer gasps.  
   
Thank God – there she is: the woman whose determination outweighed her fear, whose outward strength hid the vulnerability, whose gentle smile belied the core of steel in her spine.    
   
‘That's it.’ he encourages softly. 'Slow and easy.'  
   
Her eyes snap up to his.  
   
This close, in the dim light, her eyes are more grey than blue and he can see every dark gold lash framing her glinting eyes. They hold him motionless, keeping him where he was, where she needed him, the line of their thighs and legs pressed together, his arm banded across the small of her back, her fingers still wrapped around his throat.  
   
Bellamy has no idea how long they stand there, eyes locked, almost twined around each other like ivy. All he knows that she’s inhaling as he’s exhaling and it feels like she breathing in his soul. 

It hits him like a fucking lightning bolt, searing his blood, turning his body to ash.  
   
It’s too intimate.  
   
Terrifying.  
   
Bellamy’s heart starts hammering in panic and his body starts to tremble with the effort he’s using not to push away from her.  
   
He can’t do this. Not again. Not with Clarke. 

   
He has given all he can to the ground, to their people, to their world. He’s living day to day, holding himself together, hoping that the cracks don’t show too much. He doesn’t have anything else to give that won’t mean giving himself up.

He did it once with Clarke – she didn’t ask him to and he had never meant to do it but it had still happened - and she left. 

He can’t do it again because the last time almost destroyed him.  
   
Clarke has the power to bring him to his knees without lifting a hand. All she has to do is turn her back. She doesn't even know the extent of the sway she has over him and it’s not her fault. It’s his cross to bear and until he exorcises her out from under his skin, he can’t do this. 

But God, he misses her. 

He misses the way she tilts her head at him when she's trying to get through to him, he misses how the scent of wood-smoke clings to her hair. He misses her warmth against his arm, the quirk of her brow when he says something stupid. He misses the way she only needs to glance at him to understand what's going through his head. He misses her complete and unapologetic lack of fear of him - even when he shows her the darkest parts of him. He misses her laugh, that goddamn husky laugh, that warms the back of his neck and that he hasn't heard in far too long. He misses how she looks at him like he's better than the man he really is, her confusion and frustration when it turns out he's not that man and yet, her belief does not waver, even when she stands in a field of evidence contrary to her belief of him. 

He misses his friend, his partner, his…Clarke.

Fuck, he misses her.

Then Clarke is tearing out of his arms, tearing him out of his thoughts, and backing up until she hits the opposite wall.

He remains where he is, arms falling to his side, trying not think of how empty and cold they feel.

She's staring at him, panic and confusion in her eyes and her breaths come faster.

Jesus, she's going to have another attack.

Despite himself, Bellamy takes a step towards her.

Her arm shoots up and out, hand extended, palm up and it halts him effectively.

He's not going to touch her if she doesn't want him to.

But Clarke's face twists and his chest burns when tears fill her eyes and spill over onto her cheeks. Then, her head falls forward, blonde waves hiding her face and she shudders under the invisible weight on her shoulders.

A choked cry is torn from her throat, loud in the empty hallway, a discordant chord that echoes on the still air.

And Bellamy can only stand there and watch her cry, held back by her hand. Watch Clarke as her shoulders shake and her knees lock so her legs don't give way. Watch her until his lungs feel scorched from the fire in his chest and he can't stand still any longer.

'Clarke.' his voice is hoarse and strained but Bellamy doesn't care. 'Let me come to you.' he sees the way her sobs jar her body and the burn flares painfully, 'Jesus Christ, just let me come to you.'

There's only the sound of her sobs in that hallway. A gasping breath and - 

'Bellamy.'

It's the only thing she says and his name comes from her roughly, harshly, pleadingly and it's all he needs.  
   
He lifts a hand, wraps his fingers around the wrist of her outstretched hand, slowly, loosely, giving her time to pull away if she wanted to.  
   
But even when her arm trembles under his touch, she doesn’t. Her skin is pale against his darkness, her hand seemingly small and delicate against the heavy build of his own, the contrast startling even in the low light.  
   
Bellamy has never thought of her as delicate. Vulnerable at times, yes. But never delicate.  
   
Not until now – now when she’s breaking under the weight of all that she has done, in front of his eyes.  
   
God, she’s breaking his heart.  
   
He covers her hand with his own, hesitant. But her fingers latches on to his with strength borne from her pain, and he pulls her forward until she is slumped against him, face buried in the shoulder of his ruined t-shirt.  
   
‘Shhhh.’ he murmurs, burying his free hand in the blonde hair that spills over her back, ‘It’s okay. You’re okay.’  
   
But it’s the wrong thing to say because she stiffens in his arms before tearing right out of them again.  
   
Now it’s him standing with a hand outstretched and Clarke stands there, staring at him.  
   
Her wet face is twisted, her eyes are wild and rage filled and her mouth is set in a half snarl.  
   
He drops his arm.  
   
‘No, I’m not, Bellamy.’ Clarke whispers but her voice vibrates and he knows she’s whispering so that she won’t start screaming. ‘I’m not okay. _No one_ here is okay.’  
   
Shit.  
   
He moves forward, ‘Clarke - ’  
   
‘It’s going to take a while before any of us are _okay_.’ Her voice rises an octave, ‘Raven and Monty and Miller – God, Jasper.’ her voice breaks on Jasper’s name, ‘Harper and Monroe – none of us are okay.’ She stops, that wild gaze focused on him and his skin prickles. ‘Not even you, Bellamy.’  
   
Her knowing gaze bores into his brain and he has to clamp down on the defensive anger that rises.  
   
‘I’m dealing with it.’ he says calmly.  
   
‘I’m two doors down from you.’ Clarke laughs humourlessly, ‘You’re not the only one who can’t sleep nights and that hallway echoes.’

He stays silent: just grits his teeth and remains silent because what's the use of trying to lie to her?

Clarke has always been able to see right past his lies - even the ones he tells himself.

She shakes her head, hands going to her hair, fingers fisting in the waves, breathing hard.

'I'm tired of seeing my friends die.' she mutters feverishly, 'I'm tired of pretending that I know what I'm doing.' Her voice is starting to rise, 'I'm tired of fighting all the damn time and people still die anyway.' Her arms drop and she's fixing that hot gaze on him now, 'What are we doing, Bellamy? What the fuck are we fighting for if everyone we're fighting for dies anyway? God, what are we doing? The world has gone crazy. We're all losing it.' 

He tries to calm her frenetic energy. 'Clarke, we're going to be fine.'

'Are we?' she challenges, gaze boring into him. 'Don't pretend that you're fine, Bellamy, because you're not. You're just going through the motions but you're still struggling, you're still angry at yourself, at the world - .'

She needed to drop this.

' - at me.'

There it is. 

His head goes back and he can only bite out, 'What.'

'You.' she throws out a hand at him, 'You're still angry at me for leaving. You're still angry at me for - ' 

'Fuck.' he steps back, drags a hand down his face, even though he is, 'You just had a panic attack, Clarke. Are we seriously re-hashing this shit again? Now? Of all the fucking times?'

'Yes, we're re-hashing this shit again.' she snaps. 'You think I haven't noticed that you've been avoiding me?'

'You really don't wanna go there, Clarke.' Bellamy warns softly.

The first time still had its claws imbedded in him and he honestly doesn't know where they were going to be if they went through this again. Because it's different this time. This time there was nothing else to focus on but this, no time constraints buzzing under his skin. This time, she wasn't trying to talk him down from a mass murder and he wasn't trying to keep her out of the way. 

This time, it really was just them and everything they had done to each other. 

And Bellamy is terrified.

Clarke holds his gaze silently, chaos finally reigned, clearly hearing his warning. Then her jaw ripples again and Bellamy knows he's fucked.

'You're still angry that I left.' she repeats, 'Before tonight, ever since we came home, I can't remember the last time you looked me in the eye. You don't look at me anymore, you look right though me.'

It's the guilt that statement brings that breaks him and suddenly everything Bellamy's been shoving down surges up in a poisonous wave.

'Maybe I haven't I looked you in the eye because I don't know when you'll take off again.' he snaps.

Shit.

When the fuck is he going to learn to control his temper?

Hurt barely flashes across her face before Clarke stamps it down ruthlessly.

'Fair enough.' she murmurs, eyes on his.

Bellamy just stares at her incredulously - there was nothing fair about the shit he just spewed.

'You want me to stop running?' Clarke continues softly, eyes glinting, 'Fine. I'll start here,' she gives him a wry, strange smile, 'because I'm done running from you anyway. Let's get this all out because we're obviously not done.'

'Clarke -'

'I left you.' she interrupts calmly. 'I left you to deal alone. That was my mistake.'

The words are so calmly said and the familiar rage and resentment surges up again in him because there was fucking nothing calm about his dealing with the shit that went down in that mountain and he can only stare at her.

'And I'm sorry, Bellamy.' Clarke whispers, licks her lips, 'I'm so sorry. I was wrong - I just thought that - you had everyone here and I -'

Bellamy shakes his head, backs away and begins to pace restlessly, trying to get rid of the energy crackling under his skin.

This was such a bad idea.

'I understand that you'd feel betrayed,' she says through pale lips, 'I understand that you'd feel angry - '

No, she doesn't understand.

‘Angry?' he repeats on a broken laugh, falling back a step, one hand slashing down his face. 'Jesus Christ.'

She can't understand because she doesn't know.

The electricity under his skin hisses and snaps and without warning, the burn in his chest explodes. 

' _I buried a five year old boy, Clarke_!’ he roars, ‘He was so small his head could almost fit in my fucking palm. I put him in the ground next to his father who I choked to death with my bare hands - you know why I can't sleep nights?’ he doesn't wait for her to answer and gives her the brutal truth, 'Because I hear that kid's voice, every fucking night, asking why my hands are covered in blood.'

Clarke's face goes white.

He knows he should stop but he can't, the words boiling out of him, the dam completely and utterly shattered.  
   
‘Who the hell do you think buried the dead when you left, Clarke?’ Bellamy snaps, ‘Three  hundred bodies. Kane. Monty. O. Monroe. Me. And God, that night we came back - I needed you.’ His voice breaks at the confession and he hates it. 'You weren't there. ' God, how pathetic is it that he keeps going back to that? He looks away from Clarke's pale face, 'And then to find you at Polis with Lexa who was the reason we had to wipe out - '

'You didn't have to trust her, Bellamy.' Clarke cries, 'You just had to trust me.'

'You had been gone for three months!' he snaps, 'And then you're in Polis with her - after walking away, don't talk to me about trust because that shit needed to be earned back.'

She went impossibly whiter and Bellamy knows she's starting to understand just how broken the tie between them had been. 

'If you had wanted me to trust you then you should have _talked_ to me.' Bellamy steps away, agitated, 'Then again, I never got you, did I?' he breathes out a bitter laugh when guilt flashes across her face. 'I got Wanheda. Apologising - for what? For you leaving? For you not coming home -'

'For everything!' she suddenly snaps, 'What else could have I said or done that wouldn't make me look weak in front of the other ambassadors?' 

She had him there and Bellamy grits his teeth.

'I was in Polis,' Clarke continues shakily but her features are tight with anger, 'alone and surrounded by sharks. I was constantly wearing a mask. The first week I was there, they tried to overthrow Lexa. If she fell, we fell with her. So I stayed to make sure she didn't betray us again, that she wouldn’t be replaced by someone worse. And I did it alone, Bellamy.' The anger in her eyes flicker and he shifts uneasily on his feet when traces of betrayal crosses her face. 'I didn't realise how much I needed even just the thought of you until you walked away. And then I didn't even have that.' 

Shit.

The guilt hits him like a jack hammer and he has to look away.

'Asked you to come home, Clarke.' he says quietly, because it's the only thing he can say even if he understands that she couldn't have, 'You refused.'

'So you turned your back on me.'

His head snaps up at the rawness in her voice. Clarke's standing there, and its like a mask had slipped and she looks like the memory had stabbed her in the stomach.

'You looked at me like I was a stranger, Bellamy. Like I meant _nothing_ to you.' she throws at him, angry and despairing, 'And then you walked away. I guess turnabout is fair, right?'

And she was right. 

She was in Polis with no one at her back, without him at her back because he had turned away. Regardless of his reasons, he had left her there on her own to deal with it. She was trying to help their people, he didn't understand it then, couldn't see straight back then and he left her in what he considered enemy territory with no one at her back.

She had left him but Bellamy couldn't deny it, he had left her too.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

'I -' he stops, swallows the stone lodged in his throat. 'I'm sorry.' It comes out quiet, shaky and Clarke lifts her head to look at him. Her face softens and Bellamy can't meet her eyes. He drops his gaze to the floor, 'I was pissed off and I - I didn't know what was going on.' he closes his eyes, memories from that night flashing behind his closed lids - the rage, the disbelief, Clarke standing before him, face cold, eyes shuttered, 'I was so pissed off and - hurt.' he admits harshly, 'All I knew was that you refused to come home.' he turns back to her, lifts a hand, 'You didn't owe it to me to come back - I know that.' he clarifies, waiting until Clarke tilts her chin in acknowledgement, still watching him silently, 'But maybe I felt I deserved an explanation - and maybe that makes me selfish -'

'It doesn't.' Clarke whispers, shaking her head, 'You, of all people, deserved an explanation. And when I didn't give you one…'

'I felt like you chose the people who attacked Mount Weather over your own.' he finishes. He breathes in, clenching his jaw, 'And Clarke, maybe all that anger wasn't directed at you. I had trusted the wrong person, I left my post and people died. Gina -'

He stops.

'I'm sorry about Gina. She must -'

Clarke's whisper crawls up his skin and he can't handle it. 

'Don't.' he shakes his head, stepping back from her suddenly distraught face. ‘Don’t talk about Gina.’  
   
Clarke's mouth opens. Closes. Then her eyes dart away, her arm comes up to wrap across her stomach,. ‘I know she made you happy.’  
   
Not happy enough.  
   
He squeezes his eyes tight, the guilt washing over him, making him feel sick to his stomach.  
   
God, Gina.  
   
I should have never asked you to stay, I should have never trusted Echo, I should have loved you better, I should have let you go before it was too late. I should have, I should have, I should have. God, I’m so sorry.  
   
‘You don’t know anything.’ he bites out, anger at himself turning outwards, ‘You don’t know that Gina was the first person to smile at me after Mount Weather. That the first night I was in the bar, she broke up a fight by dropping a guy twice her weight. She loved the smell of grass. She didn't like reading but she paid enough attention that she gave me a book. She was real, Clarke. And now she's gone.'  
    
'She was a hero, Bellamy.' she whispers.  
   
'She was a martyr - I turned her into a martyr.' he shoots back, 'The only thing left of her is a book and a piece of wood with her name on it because there was nothing left of her to bury.'

'Bellamy -'

'I asked her to stay.' it's torn out of his throat. 'Me. Like Roma, she's dead because I asked her to be somewhere she shouldn't have been.'

It's not until Clarke's eyes widen that he realises what he has just admitted.

'Roma is not on you.' Clarke's voice is low, disbelieving, eyes wide. 'Gina is not on you.'

He turns away but her hand closes around his arm and it forces him to look at her.

'Their deaths are not on you, Bellamy.' she says hotly, 'They were there because they wanted to help.'

'Clarke -'

'Roma and Gina, from what Raven says, were strong, independent and they knew their own minds.' she interjects. 'Yes, they were there because they cared about you. But it wasn’t all that. Give them that autonomy - they wanted to help and what happened to both of them was wrong and screwed up and heartbreaking.' she squeezes his arm, 'But it is not your fault.'

Her eyes are clear and direct and she's looking at him like she wants shake him. Her words sink into his chest, sparking a ember that burns low but sure. He doesn't know if he'll ever forgive himself for Roma and Gina but Clarke shone a light on the situation that he had not seen before and it eases the guilt minutely. But -

'You know,' Bellamy says quietly, eyes on her, 'you could say the same about Mount Weather.'

Clarke's eyes widen then shut down, her face going cold.

She lets go of his arm, steps back but he follows her, one step forward for every step she takes back, until she hits the wall.

Nowhere to go, Clarke pushes him back and Bellamy recognises defensive anger when he sees it.

'That was different.' she states, voice tight.

'No, it isn't.' he tells her softly, 'It's the same shit, different story. Monty and I made our choices. We murdered three hundred people, Clarke - you, me and Monty.' The words are gentle but firm, 'You weren't the only one responsible -'

'You think I don't know that?' she whispers, rage and pain flickering in her voice. 'You think I don't remember you and Monty in that room with me?' She stalks up to him, face in his. 'You think I don't remember why you two were forced to make that decision? It was my decision to trust Lexa. Mine.'

'But Monty and I made our choices. Monty chose to make it possible for us to pull that lever, I chose to save my sister and not to let you pull that lever alone.' Without thinking, he reaches out, cups her cheek and the cold on her face breaks at his touch, 'Give us that autonomy, Clarke.'

'Bellamy.' Her face is pale and haggard, her expression is torn and he knows, with a swoop in his belly that his words had made an impression, 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for putting you in that position.'

Bellamy doesn’t know if it's bitter laughter at the back of his throat or frustrated tears. Because Clarke's looking at him, talking like he had been innocent before that night. As if his hands were clean before that moment.

But the truth was very far from that, wasn't it? 

His hand drops away and Bellamy steps back.

'I was a mass murderer before that night, Clarke. Hell,' he spread his arms mockingly, poison in his mouth, 'haven't you heard? I didn't stop with Mount Weather - not by a long fucking shot.'

Clarke's face hardens and he only has a second to take it in before - 

'That was Pike.' she spits.

Now, even now, she would believe that.

God, Clarke.

'That was me.' Bellamy replies gently, 'Pike may have put the gun in my hand but I was the one who pulled the trigger.'

'Bellamy - the things that you were dealing with -' Clarke's voice cracks, her face pleading, 'it would have broken anyone. You're still dealing with it now -'

'Yeah?' he moves away, the smile he throws at her over his shoulder bitter, 'Tell that to my sister who I’d probably never see again.' O, I fucked up so badly and I don't blame you for hating me, 'Tell that to Lincoln whose people I slaughtered.' Linc, I'm so fucking sorry. 'Don't kid yourself, Clarke.'

'Everyone deserves a second chance.' she tells him softly and there's the sheen of tears in her eyes. 'We've all done things.'

He said those words to her once.

Bellamy turns away from her, tilts his head up, jaw clenched, the sight of her crying no easier to see than before. 

Even if they were for him.

Especially if her tears were for him.

He didn't deserve them.

'But I've had my second chance.' he whispers to the ceiling. 'I'm beyond saving now. Even by you.'

Silence.

'I don't believe that.' Clarke's voice is low and harsh enough to make him look at her.

Her eyes are bright and there are tear tracks down her face, a flush spreading up her neck to her cheeks. She's furious now and it startles Bellamy out of the despair clinging to him.

'I don't believe that for a fucking second, Bellamy.' Clarke snaps, voice strident in the quiet, and she strides up to him, 'If you're a monster, then you're not doing it right because a monster doesn’t care, doesn't give a crap about anyone else. Your problem,' a finger jabs into his chest,' was never not caring. It's caring too much - to the point of wildness.'

Bellamy stares at her - he's never been accused of that before.

'How many times have you broken yourself for our people?' she hisses, 'How many times are you going to bear it so they don't have to? How many fucking times are you going to bloody your hands so they can live another day?' her voice is rising, rage in every syllable of every word, 'How many nights do you have to battle your demons in the name of their survival? _How many, Bellamy_?' 

Clarke's voice has risen until it bounces off the walls, echoes around them.

'You've done monstrous things but they do not make you a monster.' she's now beseeching him and Bellamy cannot look away, 'The choices we make to survive don't define us. You told me that once. So what about the choices we make at our own expense so others can survive?'

'Clarke -'

'I'm not saying that you made the right choices because you know you didn't. I'm just saying its not that simple. There is nothing black and white about the ground.' she swipes angrily at her eyes, 'I don't know if Octavia or Lincoln will ever forgive you. I don’t know if Jasper will ever forgive us. But I do know you’re not a monster, Bellamy. Not when you believed you were saving our people and you were willing to bear the cost of it on your soul.' You pulled back when you began to accept it was wrong.'

Pulled back too late.

He didn't say the words but Clarke had never needed words to get a read on him.

'You still pulled back.' she tells him harshly. 'You don't need me to save you, Bellamy. Not when this,' she places a hand on his chest, directly above his heart, 'can save you instead. You never needed me to save you. You just needed me to stand with you. To remind you. And I will.' Her eyes are steady on his, determined and hard, the heat from her hand seeping into his chest, 'I'm not leaving you. Not this time.'

And Bellamy believes her.

Feels a tightness in his chest loosen, feels something in him give and settle into place.

He leans back against the wall, exhausted, her hand falling away, and slides down, sitting on the floor, arms on his raised knees.

After a pause, Clarke slowly moves, joining him on the floor.

He doesn't know whether Clarke's right, whether he can fight the darkness in him, whether they'll ever be able to get past everything they've done, whether the nightmares will ever stop. He's still trying to figure it all out. But at least, this time, he doesn't feel so alone anymore. Clarke's not perfect and she's got her own demons. But Raven's right - if anyone can help him fight his demons, it's her. And he'll stand with her when she has to fight her own.

'God, we're so screwed up.' he mutters.

A soft, almost helpless laugh, escapes from Clarke.

He glances sideways at her, finding nothing funny about the situation they're in. 'Wanna let me in on the joke?'

'I just…' Clarke shakes her head, shoulders dropping, 'Déjà vu.' she mutters, eyes distant, brows down. 'All we need is a forest and the body of someone who tried to kill us at our feet.'

Bellamy blinks at her. Remembers.

That night had been a breaking point for them - the good kind.

That's where it all started.

Bellamy leans his head back to rest against the wall, tilting his chin to look at Clarke. 'Care to mix up it a little then?'

He raises his arm.

Clarke's face softens and then she moves, shifting towards him. The hesitation in her movements, as if unsure she would be welcomed, slices into him. Then she's ducking under his arm, fitting into his side like she was meant to be there. She turns slightly until she's half leaning against the wall, part of her back against his side, his arm banded across her chest, and her head drops to his bicep.

'Missed you.' she whispers into the skin of his arm.

He tightens his hold on her, bringing her closer.

They sit there, alone in their heads with their thoughts, but not feeling the loneliness. 

Not anymore.

Even with the echo of his guilt, the memory of those who he had killed and failed, Bellamy still feels the warmth of Clarke's body against his, her solid weight anchoring him to the land of the living, the scent of her hair and skin, the feel of her mouth on the bared skin of his arm.

And like earlier, it hits him like lightning.

He's in love with this girl.

Bellamy closes his eyes, squeezes them tight and presses his head deeper against the wall.

He's in love with this woman - with her heart, her mind, her eyes, her bravery and her loyalty.

Unlike earlier, however, the knowledge doesn't stun him into terror.

There's fear, sure, but that's not all. Because he has always loved her, deep and hard and with everything in him, and a part of Bellamy has always known that it was only time before he fell in love with Clarke Griffin. In fact, he's not surprised that he is because he can't even tell when loving her turned into falling in love with her. 

Bellamy doesn't know what to do with the knowledge but it doesn't matter yet. What matters is that she's here and she's not leaving.

'When I left,' Clarke starts quietly as if she had known where his thoughts had gone, 'it wasn't just because I couldn't face what I'd done - what we'd done.'

He squeezes her shoulder to let her know that he was listening.

'I was going to break, Bellamy. I was going to go completely to pieces,' her voices hitches, 'and I couldn't - I couldn't let you see me like that.'

He sits there in stunned silence, floundering, 'Clarke, I would have tried to help you -'

'Exactly.' she presses the side of her face into his arm, 'And you wouldn't have been able to, Bellamy. I would have broken before your eyes and there would have been nothing you could have done about it. I couldn't do that to you. Not after everything else.'

The worst thing is, Bellamy knows she's right.

The damage had been too great, the poison already reached her heart and Clarke would have shattered under the weight of a mountain of bodies. He had known it, had seen in her eyes, had read it on her face that day at the gates and he had let her go because he believed that being around their people would have been her breaking point. 

But if she had stayed, he would have tried to help her and his descent into darkness would have been that much faster when he failed.

She had left him.

But in doing so, she had saved him the pain of watching her break, the helpless rage at not being able to help her.

'It doesn't justify my leaving you and it's not the only reason I did,' Clarke whispers, 'but maybe -'

'I do.' he says huskily, leaning his forehead against the back of her head, 'I do, Clarke.'

'I was out there and all I wanted was you.' she admits, voice rough. 'I needed you but I had left you and I just - survived. I don't think I remembered what if felt like to be alive until you found me with Roan.'

He tightens his arm around her because he doesn't know what to say to that.

'If you ever rush into a rescue like that again,' she suddenly sniffs, 'without checking your surroundings, I'm going to hit you upside the head.'

Bellamy's choked laugh is startled out of him.

'I got the gag off you,' he counters, 'If you knew he was there, a warning would have been nice.'

'Bellamy, it was the first time I had seen you in three months - did you really think I was able to concentrate on anything else?'

Her words leaves him at a loss for words but he's smiling too much to think of a reply to her sparring.

Then Clarke's shifting, pulling out of his arms and getting to her feet. She looks down at him, her eyes shadowed and exhausted - but she's smiling too. He wonders if she could read what he's feeling for her on his face - the fear, the peace, the soft swells of love and the storm of desire - because she tilts her head, fair brows quirking. But if she does, she doesn't say, just holds out her hand.

When Bellamy's fingers wrap around hers, she tugs and Bellamy comes to his feet. Clarke doesn't release his hand so he keeps his fingers tight around hers as she leads him away without a word.

It's only when they're walking down a familiar corridor, dim and quiet, that he realises where they're going.

But Clarke still doesn't speak and he doesn't press her.

When she pulls him through the open door, she only lets go of his hand to switch on a lamp. It's light throws the room into relief and Bellamy looks around.

The space is almost spartan - the made bed in the corner, bedclothes neatly folded on top of the sheets, a small metal table in another corner, a chair pushed to the foot of the bed. And that was it. Bare walls, bare floors, the only presence of Clarke was her jacket hanging off a hook on the wall.

Despite the warm glow from the desk lamp, the room feels cold, emotionless.

The quiet thud of a door closing and the soft catch of a lock cuts into his thoughts and Bellamy turns around.

Clarke's leaning against the closed door, one arm curled around her.

She's not looking at him, but at the floor and Bellamy can almost see the hesitation in her bowed head.

He clears his throat. 'I don't wanna be alone tonight.'

Clarke's eyes rise to meet his and her shoulders slump in relief. She throws him a faint smile, pushes off the door to rock to her feet.

'Raven has a sleeping bag.' she tells him softly, 'But the bed's big enough. For the both of us. If you're okay with that.'

Bellamy only nods because his throat is too dry.

He should tell her that he can't stay, he should leave and return to his own bed. But his own bed won't give him any rest and he's so fucking tired.

Then Clarke's moving past him to sit on the edge of the bed, bending at the waist to pull at the loops in her boots. She's kicking off her shoes, reaching up to wind her hair into a slipknot at the top of her head, movements calm and sure.

Minutes later, his boots kicked under the table, standing with his back to Clarke, t-shirt in his hand, Bellamy suddenly wonders if there's a special circle of hell for guys like him. 

She doesn't know that he's in love with her, she's offering her bed as a haven for him, her presence as a comfort without an inkling about his feelings.

But then a small hand is on his bare back and he turns to have Clarke move straight into him. Her arms go around his waist, her cheek pressed to his chest.

'Thank you for staying, Bellamy.'

Her whisper is loud in the quiet room and Bellamy realises that he had forgotten one thing during his silent freak out.

Clarke's also offering her bed because she needed his presence tonight.

Give and take.

The knowledge loosens a knot in his chest and Bellamy wraps his arms around her shoulders, buries his face into her hair.

One day at a time.

He'll give what she needs, take what she offers and they'll take it one day at a time.

Together.

Right now, all that matters is that they were two people, broken and hurt and they needed to heal. That Clarke needed him to soothe her soul was enough for him. For now. He'll worry about everything else tomorrow.

When she pulls away, takes his hand and leads him to bed, Bellamy follows. Climbs into sheets that smelt like Clarke, tightens his hold when she curls into his side, arm tight around his waist.

They don't speak, just lie there in the silence, her head pillowed on his chest, Bellamy's hand on the back of her neck.

It creeps up on him, a strange languid feeling and it takes a while but Bellamy comes recognises it - peace. No dread of the incoming night, no exhausted resignation, no tightening in his shoulders, just quietness, the sound of Clarke's breathing mixing with his, the skin of her bare arms warm on his. 

She gives him peace.

Bellamy closes his eyes, never knowing that his lips are tipped up.

****

He comes awake in the night, shooting up in bed, throat tight, screams echoing in his ears.

It's such a familiar feeling that Bellamy waits for the stench of burning flesh and hair to permeate the air, panic joining the bile rising in his throat. 

Then a hand on his shoulder grips him tight, nails digging into his flesh and he is yanked from the depths of his nightmare.

' - lamy, come back to me.'

It's Clarke's voice, low and soothing, that cuts into the thickness of the dark and Bellamy becomes aware of the sheets twisted in his fists, his ragged breathing in the air, Clarke's voice in his ear, her length pressed against his arm.

Clarke.

He's not alone this time - he's not fighting this alone.

Everything comes rushing back to him.

He loosens his fist on the sheets, takes the hand lying on his thigh and grips it. She twines her fingers around his and grips his hand back just as tight. It's the pain that slices through the remnants of his nightmare and Bellamy focuses on it.

Through it, he can feel Clarke sweeping her hand across his back, her husky voice humming a tuneless melody, anchoring him to this world, giving him a path to follow back to her.

When he is completely free, he raises his head, searching for her eyes. The room is dim, cool moonlight pooling on the floor and by it's light, Clarke's eyes on him, watching him closely. Relief softens the tight lines of her face.

'You're back.' she murmurs and presses a kiss to the rounded outline of his shoulder.

The heat of her mouth scores through him, melting the cold in his chest.

Bellamy closes his eyes and thinks if he didn't know he was in love with her before, he'd know now.

Then Clarke's shifting, going to her back, pulling him down with her, her hand gently guiding his head to lie on her chest. 

He gives in to the need to take the comfort she's offering. Her heartbeat is strong under his ear and her fingers card through his hair gently.

'Bellamy?'

His name vibrates in her chest.

His own voice is hoarse. 'Yeah?'

'Just in case,' her fingers in his hair pause, 'I - I really care about you.'

Bellamy freezes.

He doesn't know what she means by the words - there are too many ways to interpret them. But -

Hope flickers. 

'At the rate we're going, we could die or lose our minds completely tomorrow and I - I just wanted you to know.'

He still hasn't replied and Clarke's voice is tentative, almost defensive.

Bellamy smiles against the rising beat of her heart.

This time it's not the aftermath that lends huskiness to his voice. 'I really care about you too, Griffin.'

It's light enough for her to take platonically if she chose, but firm enough that she couldn't mistake the truth in the words.

Her fingers return to shifting through his hair.

Bellamy wonders if Clarke's aware that his head is pillowed against her breasts, upper body pressed against hers, that one of his thighs is cradled between the vee of her own and he braces himself to pull back.

Except, Clarke moves before he does, shifting slightly to her side, meeting his eyes as she does. 

She offers him a smile, soft and strange and Bellamy realises with a jolt that she knows exactly how entwined they are.

_…because I'm done running from you…_

_…I - I really care about you…_

Her words echo in his memory and his heart roars.

This time, Bellamy knows that his lips are tilting up, that he's grinning wide and Clarke rolls her eyes but she doesn't stop smiling.

'Don't get too cocky.' she mutters.

Bellamy shakes his head, leans forward to place a kiss at the base of her throat and Clarke runs a slightly trembling hand down his back. 

There are no words spoken about the change in the air but in the time that they've known each other, their actions have always spoken for them.

They hold each other's eyes in the dim light, an understanding passing between them, unspoken promises exchanged, vows said in the way Clarke traces a vein in his forearm, in the way Bellamy tightens his hold on her.

After the calamity that is their life, the chaos that surrounds them, this moment of acknowledgement that they are now _more_ is almost pure in it's quietness and simplicity, soothing wounded souls and tortured minds. 

The words will soon follow.

And suddenly, the night doesn’t seem so dark anymore.

****

They wake up the next morning to a note on the desk in Raven's handwriting.

_Looks like you two kicked some demon ass last night. Finally._

*finis*

**Author's Note:**

> Silhouette by Active Child feat. Elle Goulding - that song is Bellarke AF and was on repeat during this. If you caught references to it, high five!
> 
> Oh, and maybe the Teen Wolf fans can catch the other (twisted) reference ;)
> 
> xoxo


End file.
